


Greater Love Hath No Man

by ras_elased



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-01
Updated: 2008-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:32:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ras_elased/pseuds/ras_elased
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future!fic. Sam visits Dean twenty-one years after that day at the crossroads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greater Love Hath No Man

**Author's Note:**

> This story was conceived as Gen. Somewhere in the middle, it developed implied Wincest. Is anyone who knows me really surprised?

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

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[fandom: spn](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fandom%3A%20spn), [fic: greater love hath no man](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/fic%3A%20greater%20love%20hath%20no%20man), [genre: angst](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/genre%3A%20angst), [rating: pg](http://ras-fic.livejournal.com/tag/rating%3A%20pg)  
  
  
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Title: Greater Love Hath No Man  
Author: Ras Elased  
Rating: PG-13  
Summary: Future!fic. Sam visits Dean twenty-one years after that day at the crossroads.  
Spoilers: Uh, only up to AHBL2, I think. Although this was inspired by a scene in 3.07, the fic makes no mention of it.  
Author's notes: This story was conceived as Gen. Somewhere in the middle, it developed implied Wincest. Is anyone who knows me really surprised?  
  
For those of you who want the warning: Offscreen main character death.  


  
  
Sam grunts as he stands up and closes the Impala's hood. He tosses the socket wrench back into the tool box, then uses his free hand to massage his lower back. He slipped a disc there years ago, and it still acts up from time to time, a dull, throbbing reminder that he's not as young as he used to be.

He grabs the nearest oil rag and wipes the grease from his hands, feels the beginnings of an ache in the largest knuckle of his trigger finger and hopes it's not arthritis. Not that it matters much. He can shoot just as well with his left as he can with his right, but his knife throwing might start to suffer.

He pulls out his cell phone, and the line on the other end rings three times before Bobby answers with a brusque, "Hello?"

"Hey, Bobby."

"Sam? That you?" His voice sounds surprised but happy, and Sam quickly calculates the time it's been since he last called. He doesn't like the number he comes up with, and he reminds himself he needs to call more often.

"Yeah, it's me," Sam says, the hint of a smile and an apology in his voice. "How ya been, Bobby?"

"Bored as hell," is the prompt reply. "What do you need, son?" Sam has to smile at that. Forty-five years old, and Bobby still calls him "son" like he's comforting a child.

"Nothing for a job this time," Sam says. "Think you can get your hands on a carburetor for me? The one in the Impala is on its last legs, and I really don't want a repeat of that hunt in Milwaukee."

Sam can almost hear Bobby's face scrunch at the memory of Sam showing up at Bobby's door with a dislocated shoulder and a hastily stolen temporary replacement for the Impala. Sam's seen the expression before, and he knows how it deepens the lines in Bobby's wrinkled, weathered skin. Sam's developed a few wrinkles of his own over the years. "That old thing still running?" Bobby asks gruffly.

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "And it'll keep running until Judgment Day, if I've got anything to say about it."

Bobby laughs at that, one harsh dry chuckle that carries more sadness than amusement. "Well, if anyone can keep that old heap together out of sheer stubbornness, it's you."

Sam laughs obligingly, but he knows it's not true. If the Impala had to rely on Sam's will alone to hold it together, it would have fallen apart twenty years ago. "So, you think you can do it?" he asks.

Bobby hums in thought for a moment, then says, "Gimme a week, I should have it by then."

"Great," Sam replies. "Ship it to the P.O. Box in Lawrence."

Bobby's voice is deceptively casual when he says, "You're not gonna come out here and pick it up?"

Sam frowns. "I can't. Got word of a vampire nest in Topeka I need to check out."

There is a pause long enough on Bobby's end to be just this side of uncomfortable. "You going to visit Dean?"

Sam swallows. "Yeah."

Another pause. "Tell Ellen I said hello."

"Okay," Sam says thickly. "Thanks."

***

Sam stumbles into the motel room and tries not to bleed on the carpet. He's got a bite mark on his neck, a gash across the back of his shoulder, probably a few cracked ribs, and his face looks like a punching bag, but right now the Topeka Fire Department is putting out the remains of a vamp nest, so Sam considers it a victory.

He grabs the first aid kit and heads for the bathroom, carefully peeling off his blood-soaked shirt. It gets tossed into the tub before he opens the kit. He frowns at the familiar sight of the bottle of brown liquid on top, though he doesn't know why. His dad always kept a bottle of whiskey in the med kit, along with a few other places. Sam shouldn't be surprised he's following in his father's footsteps.

Sam takes out the whiskey and downs a healthy swig before dousing his shoulder generously. He isn't sure if the wince is from the burn in his throat or his shoulder, but it doesn't much matter as long as it gets the job done. Sam wipes the dried blood from his face and takes stock of the damage. His lip is split and there's a gash across his cheekbone, but that's pretty much par for the course. Sam tries not to see how tired he looks, his eyes shadowed and dull. There is grey at his temples and in his scruffy beard, and Sam considers not for the first time that he really needs a haircut. His lanky frame has filled out somewhat, his shoulders broadened, so that the slightly stooped posture of his youth looks less endearing and more detached and defensive. The face that stares back at him is worn with age. He looks older than his years, but Sam thinks he doesn't look old enough. Not yet, at least.

Sam turns his back to the mirror and pulls a needle and thread from the kit. The angle is awkward and the stitches will be messy. It'll scar badly, but it's just one more thing Sam's come to accept. The needle pulls at the ragged edges of his flesh, and more than once the thread rips through his skin, but Sam bites his lip through the pain. This, too, is something Sam remembers about his father. Not that Sam ever had to stitch him up—that was Dean's job—but he remembers the scars.

Sam's got his own scars now, both new and old. This newest gash cuts across an old, long faded one, a thin line Sam would barely be able to see if he didn't know it was there. He runs his fingers across it to feel its smoothness, such a contrast to the ugly stripes of badly healed flesh Sam's come to expect from his own stitching. Dean always made the stitches small and efficient.

Sam closes his eyes and absently runs his fingers over a few other old, smooth scars, remembering how Dean had taken care of him while calling him a whiny bitch, tenderness concealed in a heavy shroud of mockery. A slash under his right collarbone from a poltergeist in Michigan, a small cut above his left hip from being tossed into a church pew in Texas, three faint scratches from a werewolf in Oregon, a stab wound cutting across his spine.

Sam takes another long drink of whiskey to burn the taste of rising bile from the back of his throat. He slaps a pad of gauze over the wound on his shoulder. The gash is still painful and bleeding slowly, but he thinks the stitches should hold, at least for now.

***

The bell over the door rings as Sam walks into the florist. There are several prefabricated bouquets in the display case, but Sam bypasses them in favor of the rows of cut flowers on the shelves. He's spent enough time using flowers and herbs for various spells to know that each one has a different meaning, and he's not about to let somebody else pick his words for him.

The shelves are arranged in alphabetical order, which makes it easy for him to find what he needs. He smiles to himself thinking about what Dean would have to say about his masculinity right now—or supposed lack thereof. He finds a kind of sadistic glee in picking out some of the flowers with the sappiest sentiments. He adds each bloom to his growing handful, decades' worth of spellcasting knowledge helping him easily catalogue each one: Allium for patience, Camellia for longing, Dogwood for love through adversity, Gladiolus for strength and courage, and finally Zinnia for remembrance of someone lost. It makes a somewhat ugly bouquet, but Sam doubts Dean will care.

The woman at the counter is maybe thirty years old, and she wraps up the flowers while giving Sam an assessing look. "What sentiment would you like put on the card?"

"No card, thanks," Sam says. Dean knows who they're from, and Sam doesn't think that 'Yes, I picked out the flowers, but if it makes you feel any better, later I'll go drink a six pack and kill something with a big gun' would fit on the card anyway.

The woman raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. "You know, most guys just come in and pick the first bouquet they see. This must be for someone special. Anniversary present for your wife?" Her eyes unsubtly flick to his left hand. "Girlfriend?" she amends.

Sam's smile is pained when he says, "Something like that."

It's not that Sam didn't try. There had been one girl, one night, a long time ago. She'd had green, green eyes and lashes so long it hurt to look at them. He'd left her coffee and money for a cab on the nightstand. After that, there'd been no one else.

Bobby stopped trying to get him to settle down ages ago, but Sam thinks that's mostly Ellen's doing. He barely speaks to Ellen anymore. It hurts to see her, to see that look in her eyes that Sam knows is reflected in his own, like looking into a mirror. Sam had always respected her, admired her strength, but now he understands her, joined by a bond Sam never wanted to share. The pain is bright and sharp even after all these years.

The saleswoman smiles. "Well, whoever she is, she's very lucky."

Sam swallows hard and doesn't bother to correct her.

***

This is always the hardest part. Sam stands in the chill autumn air, breath frosting in front of his face, the bouquet in one hand and a couple of beers in the other, the same things he brings every year. It's been twenty-one years to the day since Dean made that deal at the crossroads, and somehow this never gets any easier. Sam's throat closes up, and it takes nearly ten solid minutes of gathering his strength before he can speak.

"Hey, Dean," he greets, voice thick. His hands shake as he holds out the bouquet and the beer bottles. "I brought you presents."

Sam sets the flowers and beer on top of Dean's headstone. He kneels and begins clearing away the weeds that have grown up around the base since he was here a year ago, feeling guilty for the lack of upkeep. The granite slab is starting to show signs of age, no longer as polished and shiny as it was the first time Sam stood here twenty years ago. But the engraving is still etched in the stone, clear and immutable. Sam runs his fingertips over the letters. _Dean Winchester, 1978-2008. "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his brother." John 13:15_

Sam clenches his jaw against the hot wetness pooling in the backs of his eyelids. He grabs the two beer bottles and sits down in the grass, popping the top on each one. He pours half of Dean's into the grass, remembering how Dean always used to down the first half of his beer like a shot, and then Sam takes a drink of his own. He sits there for a long time, silently nursing his beer until it grows warm. Sam feels Dean's absence every minute of every day, but here it becomes a tangible nothingness, threatening to choke him and drag him down under the soil to join his brother. Sam is almost willing to let it take him. Finally, Sam can't stand the silence anymore.

"I'm doing like you said. I'm still hunting, for as long as I can. I'm living my life." He takes another pull of the beer, swallows past the growing lump in his throat. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and Dean's ring drags across his trembling lips. "I miss you, jerk," he chokes out, voice scratchy and gruff.

After Sam is done here, he'll visit Ellen. It happens like clockwork, every year. This is the only time it doesn't hurt to see her, when Sam _needs_ to see her, because he's afraid to let himself be alone. Ellen understands. The only thing that kept her going after the death of her husband was Jo. The only thing that's keeping Sam going now is an unspoken promise to Dean, to live his life as best he can, because it's the only thing he can do to make Dean's sacrifice mean something. Dean literally gave his life in exchange for Sam's, and if he loves his brother, there's no way he can throw that away. So Sam lives, day by excruciating day, waiting patiently for the pain to end. This is Sam's gift to Dean, a life for a life, his own version of inverted sacrifice.

Sam pours the rest of the beer into the grass by Dean's headstone. His fingers curl over the top of the cool granite. He hesitates a moment, then quickly presses his lips to the smooth surface and mutters, "I'll see you next year." He gives the stone a couple of rough pats, a poor stand-in for the way he used to wrap his arms around Dean's shoulders and bury his face in Dean's neck, then plant a couple of affectionate thumps with an open palm square between his shoulder blades. The stone is cold and unforgiving against Sam's hand, one more solid reminder that Sam is stuck in this empty world, at least for now. He picks up the drained beer bottles and walks away, dry leaves crunching beneath his feet and hollow glasses clinking in his hand, one year closer to the light at the end of the tunnel.

_   
**Greater Love Hath No Man**   
_


End file.
